by R J Scott
“No, I don’t want that.”
He nodded as if he agreed, then tapped the sketchbook. “The design is entirely up to you. This is your helmet, your design, your loves and hates, the things that are special to you. What makes you tick, what is the essence of you. I want to see inside you and get a real feel for who you are.”
I blinked at him. That was way too deep, and I felt nauseous.
“No,” I said.
And left.
Four
Gatlin
What the ever-loving fuck?
Our server arrived with our dinners. She stood there with two platters of food, looking a great deal as I did, I imagined.
I threw her a quick glance, smiled despite the surge of anger I felt and pushed to my feet.
“Tina, can you take those back to the kitchen and keep them warm?”
She nodded as I went off in pursuit of the hockey player with the bad manners. I found him heading west and jogged to catch up.
“Hey, pretty boy!” I shouted.
He never paused. He just hurried along, his head down as if he were expecting a piano to drop on him. I ran a bit faster and caught up with him in front of a mattress store that had recently closed its doors. “Hey!”
I grabbed his arm. He spun around, his eyes wide, his arm coming up defensively. My fingers slid from his sleeve.
Bryan blinked at me as if he was shocked to see me glowering at him.
“I have to go,” he said, then checked past me to find the most direct path to somewhere, his car probably. I put myself between him and his escape route. Sure, he was taller by a few inches and had about fifty pounds on me. Also, he was much younger and an athlete, so he could’ve easily tossed me aside if he’d wanted to. But something deep inside told me that he wasn’t prone to violence. He had experienced it though if that knee-jerk reaction to my touch on his arm was any indication.
“You can go after I have my say,” I stated, folding my arms over my favorite Emerson, Lake & Palmer t-shirt. Thank goodness it was a warm fall night, as I’d left my jacket back at the bar. He closed in on himself, like a morning glory closing its petals at dusk. “That was about the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever seen. You do realize that I took an hour out of my work schedule to sit down and talk with you, right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him, startled a bit at how automated his words sounded.
“Well, yeah, you should be. I could have been making money.”
“I’ll pay you for your wasted time.” He reached back to find his wallet.
“No, that’s not what I’m after here. You just can’t walk out on a business meeting. It’s amateurish and frankly below what I’ve come to think of as the standards of the Railers players and organization.”
A car went by, an old Blink 182 song rolling down the street as it passed. Bryan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I waited. He lifted his gaze from my boots to my face for a moment.
“I’m sorry to have acted in any way that makes the Railers look bad.” His expression was sorrowful. I’d seen dogs being scolded that didn’t look that pitiful. Shit, okay, so now I felt like a dick. “I really want to go now. Can I go?”
My mind was struggling to keep up with all the wild input Bryan was shoving into it.
“Sure, yeah, if you want to go, then go.” What else could I say? Not as if I could drag the man back to Binky’s Pub and force him to talk helmet design with me. “You know where to reach me if you decide to try this again.”
He nodded, his gaze flying to the empty storefront behind me. I watched him hustle off, his shoulders up by his ears as if he were cold, but the night was far from chilly. It felt as if I stood there on the sidewalk in front of Bargain Barney’s Bedding for a long time pondering what it was I’d been a part of. Somehow, my righteous indignation had sputtered out in the face of Bryan’s…what was it exactly? Fear? Anxiety? Conditioned response?
I made my way back to the pub, thoughts churning over what had happened. Our waitress had thoughtfully put our meals into takeout containers, so I paid and tipped her and made my apologies before heading back to the shop. I had a nine o’clock appointment, but he wouldn’t be there for another thirty minutes. I walked through the front door and into the shop, then stalked up to the counter and dropped the bag of food in front of Jess. She quirked a pierced brow.
“My dinner companion ran off,” I told her while opening the big brown bag.
“Did you start talking about your obsession with Joe Perry again?”
“No, I did not.” I huffed, pulled out the chicken dinner, and passed it to my niece. Judas Priest was playing, Rob’s incredible voice soothing my jagged edges a bit. “I’m not obsessed with Joe Perry. I’m obsessed with Eddie Van Halen.”
“Eddie has aged well.” Jess sighed while taking the lid off a small cup of coleslaw.
“That he has. Anyway, no, I did not start talking about Eddie. I merely asked the kid what he wanted on his mask. We talked for a second about his family, and then he up and ran out.”
I walked over to the far wall and flopped onto a couch. The purple walls were covered with tattoo designs on posters and papers that fluttered when I dropped down. Jess had overseen the new paint job last year. I’d have left the damn walls black as they’d been for years, but Jess had wanted some color in the shop. We’d gone back and forth for three months, and then I’d given up and let her have her way. Which was why I now owned a plum-colored tattoo parlor with areas painted anywhere from mustard yellow to some crappy orange tone to a pink bathroom. Pink. In a tattoo shop.
“Like he stuck you with the bill?” She cut into her chicken, the plastic knife making a pained squeak as it went into the Styrofoam.
“Well, yeah.” I scooped up my burger and took a bite, my gaze flitting to the PS4 and TV in the corner. The game system gave folks something to do while they waited for their turn, which kept them happy.
“What a cheap cock,” she mumbled around a mouthful of roasted chicken. “This is amazing chicken.”
“It’s not the bill issue that got me mad. Shit, I was going to pay anyway, because he’s a potential new customer, and the fee for the original artwork would cover his twelve-dollar meal. It was…well, at first it was how he left but then…”
I sat back, ankle on knee, and took a bite off my burger. Juicy and cooked perfectly rare. I chewed and swallowed and fell into a long think. I’d not seen that kind of a reaction from a person in a long, long time. It took me back to when I’d been stationed at Pearl Harbor-Hickam during my four years in the Navy, fresh after enlisting in high school. Trying not to think of Akumu and the wild first love that had ended so badly, I forced myself to skip by my former lover’s memories and focus on his sister. Sweet, tiny Haunani who had a husband who liked to pound on her mentally and physically. Her dark eyes had the same kind of lifelessness Bryan’s had.
“Well, I think he sounds like a dick, even if he is hot as sin,” Jess stated, then shoved more chicken into her mouth.
I let the subject drop because Jess hadn’t seen the young man’s expression when I’d begun telling him off. He’d bolted out of fear. He’d flung that arm up in dread. Terror of being struck or berated. I’d bet next month’s income on it. But what, or who, on earth could a big, rugged kid like Bryan Delaney be afraid of?
Time passed without a peep from the hockey world. I was buried in work, which was great, and I will never complain about being busy. Well, okay, I will, but I know I shouldn’t. I had called Woody in to take a night, so I could skip out early to attend the first preseason game for the Railers. I did have season tickets so why not? Also, it would give me time to check out the new goalie as the teams switched tenders midway through most of the preseason games. When it was time to start the season properly, then Stan would play the last game or two all the way through, but for now, each goalie would get thirty minutes in net. I was keen on studying Bryan. He’d haunted my thoughts since that failed d
inner. I wanted to see him again. In the net. I was not there to ogle or drool, although the young man was surely worthy of some saliva, My interest was purely as a fan of the sport. Or so I kept telling myself.
“I wish you’d think more strongly on investing some of your money into CDs,” Garrett droned on. He was on his monthly visit to my place to try to make me invest in this or that promotion at the bank making me edgy about missing puck drop.
“Right. Will do,” I said as I pulled my Tennant Rowe jersey on.
“Will do, when?”
I tugged to get the collar over my head, then gave my older brother a dark look. He pretended not to see my glare.
“When I have time.” The search for my glasses began. I found them on the bookshelf, with no help from Garrett.
“Which will be when?”
Ugh. I swear he was the biggest pain in the ass. Did I look as if I might be in the mood to talk about interest rates, retirement or portfolios? No. I was ready for hockey.
“When you let me give you that first tattoo,” I countered, shoved my phone and glasses into various pockets, checked for my wallet and my ticket, and then stared right at my sibling. He had aged nicely. You’d never know he had ten years on me.
“Bankers don’t get tattoos.” He shut his briefcase with a snap.
“Get one where only Marissa can see it,” I teased, knowing his wife would file for divorce if he ever came home with a tat. They were a fine, upstanding, well-to-do couple who had been somehow cursed with a daughter who seemed to be somewhat fluid in her sexual tastes and a brother-in-law who sucked dick, inked people up, and listened to GASP! Heavy metal. Which explained why I'd not laid eyes on my sister-in-law for over three years. The sight of me would’ve induced a massive migraine or some other such bullshit. She played up her distaste well. I had to give the brittle old cow that.
“Yes, of course, I'll jot that down in my day planner. Get a fish tattoo on my balls, Tuesday at one.” Garrett sniffed.
I chuckled. The man was wickedly funny in a sarcastic way that really flared to brilliance in my presence. We’d always been like this, even as kids. It was only Gina, our baby sister, who’d been able to buff off the sharp edges of our battles. “Feel free to fritter away your cash then.” He pulled on a coat, a rather nice one, long and woolen, and gave me his patented flat look.
“Speaking of which, I have a hockey game to attend. Can I escort you out?” I waved elegantly at the doorway.
“I know the way. I want to stop and pass along a message from Marissa to our daughter.”
He never even made the snide remark about spending money on stupid things like hockey tickets or concert tickets or gay porn. What a disappointment. I’d had something all snarky lined up for his hockey jibe.
“Right, well, it was nice to see you. Tell your wife I said hello,” I called while sneaking around him and jogging to the front desk. “He’s got a message,” I whispered to Jess. She rolled her eyes, and I left before I got dragged into some sort of familial thing. I had a game to attend.
It took just ten minutes after hopping on the CAT bus to reach the arena. Driving the short distance was foolish, and my car was at the tire shop anyway. Turnout at preseason games was ordinarily light, so I was pretty much alone in my seat, five rows up from the home bench. I settled in, beer in one hand, a hot dog with lots of mustard and relish in the other, for a kind of pointless game between the Railers and the Devils. I sipped, and I ate, and I relaxed. There were quite a few names from the Carlisle Rush wearing the dusky blue tonight. Maybe some young nobody would make the final cut and be on the team come October. Or perhaps they'd all be sent back down.
Stan was doing an excellent job in net. He seemed to be a little rusty, even though he and the rest of the team had worked all summer to come back to camp firm and ready to play. I looked down at my little belly and sighed. Listen to me talking about others staying in shape. Where had that rock-hard body the Navy had given me gone?
Try a few less beers, hot dogs, and burgers with fries, Gatlin.
“Shut the fuck up self,” I grumbled, thankful that the seats around me were empty. The first period slogged past, the veterans putting in time, working out the kinks. Now, the young bucks from the Rush, they were hitting it hard, trying to impress the coaching staff with their wicked mad skills. And then there was Tennant Rowe, my hero. I’d had the pleasure of meeting most of the team since they came to me for all their ink as well as their masks. Tennant was one hell of a good kid, smart, personable, giving and talented. He was my hero because of his strength in coming out as gay in a world that was not always welcoming to gay men. He’d braved it with his man at his side. That took guts. He was still feeling the heat as the country seemed less inclined to be accepting.
So yeah, I admired the kid. And he was a phenom, no way around it. Even now, in the first preseason game when the others were dicking around, Tennant Rowe was determination personified. He snuck a fast shot past the Devils’ goalie quicker than I could blink. The scattered fans in attendance hooted, the red goal light flashed, and the Railers goal song played.
That goal was about all the excitement we got until the goalie change. Then I perked up a bit, which was nothing I wanted to dwell on. Bryan and Stan bumped gloves as they passed each other. My beer was gone, and I really wanted another one, but the need to watch Bryan in net and the small voice in my head whispering about my tiny gut kept me in my seat.
It was interesting to see Bryan working. He seemed focused, tight on the game, his moves quick and sure. He wasn’t particularly flashy, but he was sharp-eyed, and his glove hand was a thing of beauty. He robbed one of the Devils’ players with a flick of his wrist. That save, seen a moment later up on the Jumbotron, should make the highlight reels. Bryan was pure reflexes. I could tell in the way he moved as if his body were linked to the puck and how it was going to fly at him. The rest of the game rushed by. I was shocked when the rink announcer called out the final minute of play warning.
Bryan was treated to a round of head taps and pats on the back from his new teammates after the final buzzer. He tugged off what was a damn ugly mask. His dark hair was soaked, flat to his skull, and his face was shiny with sweat. He shook his head like a dog, and then he smiled. I’d never seen a smile quite as brilliant. It ignited something inside me, a tiny little ember of undeniable want that I’d thought Rex had permanently snuffed out. I had this insane urge to make Bryan Delaney smile again somehow.
Five
Bryan
We’d won! I was on a high, and I couldn’t wait to tell Aarni about my success, albeit only in the final half of the game. I wrote and sent a text before I even thought to check how the Raptors had done tonight, and I knew better.
Jesus kid. It’s preseason. Doesn’t count, idiot. LOL was Aarni’s reply. When I checked the scores on the NHL app, I saw the Raptors preseason game against the Kings had ended in a six-one loss for the Raptors.
Shit.
What did I say now? Should I text back and say I was sorry they’d lost? There in Harrisburg I was so far removed from what was happening with the Raptors.
I should have checked.
It seemed to me I’d done nothing the past few days but piss people off. What had happened with Gatlin had guilt pinching at me, and I hadn’t been able to shake it all day. The only time I could forget about my rudeness, my meltdown, was when I’d been playing tonight. When I considered how I’d pissed Aarni, and also Gatlin, I was so damn angry at myself.
Gatlin hadn’t shouted at me, but the disappointment in his expression and the fact he’d called me on my rudeness had served to give me a very restless night and a thoughtful day.
I typed out a sorry to Aarni, and a sad face, but didn’t send it. Was that the right thing to say? It might look like I was gloating, and Aarni was right, it was a preseason game, a way to shake out the kinks after the summer break. It wasn’t as if it was important or anything. I deleted the text.
Maybe I could type th
at I’d been joking; maybe add my own LOL to take the sting out of my obvious crass celebration? I realized I was gripping the phone too tightly, and I willed each muscle to relax. If I cracked another phone screen, that would be seven phones I’d ruined.
As Aarni said, I didn’t know my own strength.
Someone toed my foot, and I looked up in surprise.
“You waiting for your girlfriend to call?” Connor asked me. The captain was flushed with heat and wrapped only in a towel, he was intimidatingly gorgeous and toned, standing right in front of me.
“Boyfriend, and no,” I said before I even had time to think about lying or bending the truth. The words hung in the air.
Connor’s mouth fell open, and then he said in a somewhat high and squeaky voice, “boyfriend?”
My heart sank. I thought the Railers were inclusive. What about Ten? Aarni was right. It was probably one rule for him, and another for everyone else.
Connor shook his head as if he was clearing cobwebs. “Ten,” he called.
“Cap?” Ten replied quickly.
“Get over here. Adler, you as well. Stan, Erik, Dieter, fuck…all of you get the fuck over here now.”
I couldn’t understand what was going on. Was this some kind of new-boy hazing? I was trapped in my cubicle, Connor looming over me, his hands on his hips, the towel thankfully staying put, and he’d called over players.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Erik was the first to arrive, his blond curls wet and flattened. Stan wasn’t too far behind him, taller than Erik and peering down at me. He wrinkled his nose in thought and then nodded as if just staring was enough for him to have some sort of epiphany. Dieter sauntered toward me as if he had all the time in the world and quirked a smile when Connor scowled at him. Ten scurried over, his dark hair in soft spikes, and he searched the faces of the small group and looked at us expectantly.
“Wassup?” He continued to button his soft, blue shirt.
